


LALONDE: Ride a train sober.

by seerofbread (zopponde)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, First Kiss, Love Confessions, POV Second Person, Post-Scratch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-27
Updated: 2011-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-28 06:25:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zopponde/pseuds/seerofbread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the kink meme:</p><p>Lalonde fears a lot of things. The batterwitch. Her mother's distance. But there is nothing she fears more than to be unaccepted, alone...than the fear most prominent in her head of her love for Jane Crocker. All the things she tries to drink her way through.</p><p>So when they finally meet and there's not a drink in sight, will she confront her feelings or reel back in fear once more?</p>
            </blockquote>





	LALONDE: Ride a train sober.

**Author's Note:**

> **Updated** (19/2/12) to utilize Roxy's canon name instead of fanon Rain. (Needless to say, this was written before lots of things unfolded so it is unlikely to hold up to canon in the long run.)
> 
> Please let me know if the formatting is inconvenient. This is a lot of firsts for me, including my first time trying to convey kink meme parts; as I intend to continue in this way, I would appreciate any feedback.
> 
> Original kink meme prompt and fill can be found [here](http://homesmut.livejournal.com/12138.html?thread=24820074#t24820074).

**LALONDE: Ride a train.**

***

Your name is Roxy Lalonde and you have the worst headache in the history of headaches. It’s like the train you paid to ride with your mother’s borrowed credit card is made of hammers that all have something against your head. We’re talking sledgehammers, none of this rubber mallet bullshit. The only thing you want is something to drink, _anything_ , hell you would take a beer at this point if it would even ease the pain a little, but the dining car that serves alcohol is way too far for you and you know they wouldn’t even ask for a card, they’d just tell you no.

You start to question why you’re doing this. Visiting Crocker. Sure, your mom signed off on it, and so did her father (how she convinced him that she wasn’t going to be assassinated was a mystery of the universe), but did that mean it was a good idea? Your mom’s good ideas meant leaving alcohol where a ten-year-old could pick it up and turn reality into a faraway fantasy. Not that you could complain: there were an awful lot of things for a ten-year-old to want to distance herself from, at least if her name is Roxy Lalonde.

Shit, you don’t even know how to handle it sometimes even when you’re drunk. You keep talking to Crocker even though she triggers some fear inside you. It’s very strange to you, really, that you keep talking to her anyway, but you can’t help yourself. It’s like she’s a flame and you’re a fucking moth, except that you’re an alcoholic moth and _damn_ when you catch fire you are going to fucking explode. (Your headache is too bad for you to remember that you’re not actually drunk right now.)

You really wish you had a fake ID. Christ, it’s hard enough for you to admit to other things, how are you supposed to make anything of this trip if Crocker’s dad is actually decent enough to keep her away from the booze? It’s one thing to privately accept the fact that your mother isn’t around nearly as often as you would like, it’s totally different to try to tell someone that you’re a drunken moth for them when you can’t even tell your mother to take a few less clients. This shit is completely unfair, and that’s not just your opinions talking, you know for a fact that one of your mother’s stupid colleagues would say the same.

You shake your head, pretty sure it’s stupid to be thinking too hard about emotions and fears and stuff when the biggest pile of them is sitting at the train station waiting to pick you up. Maybe you could use a warm-up, but damn if that doesn’t also hurt and you don’t want to become some gigantic puddle of being in pain forever so you shift around in your seat trying to get comfortable. Eventually you fall asleep, rocked by the train carriage into a state not of comfort but of forfeit.

***

**LALONDE: Wake up.**

***

For better or for worse, you wake up just as the train is departing from the stop before yours. It’s only half an hour after that.

You feel like you’re going to throw up. You can’t, of course, because you haven’t eaten anything all day because you’ve been so nervous. But it feels like you would if you could and that thought makes you kind of nervous to eat.

You wonder what you’re going to say. You know what she looks like because she’s sent you pictures, and vice-versa, and nobody uses trains anymore so we’re not talking about searching a crowd here or anything, but what are you going to do if this headache makes your banter less effective? What if her dad makes you too uncomfortable to say anything?

Before you know it, the train slows to a stop, and you force yourself to be calm. It’s something you’re fairly well-practiced at, so you succeed, though it makes thinking hard. (Unless that’s the headache again.) You manage to stand, collect the small baggage that you brought, walk off the train, and kind of look around on the platform.

The Crockers are here, sure enough, and you carefully, steadily, make your way towards them. It’s a little hard to recognize Crocker through the hat and all of the scarves it seems her father’s made her wear, but that’s definitely her father with the pipe and hat. She’s waving so enthusiastically her effort to disguise herself is almost wasted as the scarves seem to be in danger of falling off.

You clear your throat several times as you approach, and practice a smile. When you’re close enough, you say, “Hey Crocker, what’s cooking?”

You immediately hate yourself, but the both of them fucking laugh like it was funny and you meant it. Her dad pats you on the head. “You’ll do just fine with us,” he says like you made a good first impression.

The whole drive home is awkward, though the Crockers don’t seem to mind. She tells you about this new recipe she found that she wants to try on you, and you kind of smile and nod.

When you get to her house, though, she doesn’t start cooking. She just kind of takes you to her room, and you say something admiring about how small her house is. You’re not sure if you really mean it, but she agrees that it’s nice. She sits you on the bed and then she sits on her pillow, cross-legged with shoes kicked off already.

The two of you have a good long conversation about cakes and cookies, but you don’t have the heart in you to remind her about the evils of the batterwitch. There’s something about her presence that makes you not think of words but instead think of how bright her eyes are and how cute she is when she leans forward all excited like that.

And then something occurs to you and you hate yourself.

***

**LALONDE: Have a panic attack.**

***

You can feel your heart beating harder, though. It resonates in your head, and now it’s a pounding headache and you’re pretty sure that’s a good sign that you should take some Aspirin or something. You can’t just leave Crocker here, though; and besides, her dad’s probably actually responsible and won’t leave medicine lying around. So you just kind of keep smiling and nodding until Crocker’s pretty little expression gets all worried-like on you.

“Hey, are you okay?” she asks. “You don’t seem like your usual self.” She gives you this look like she solved a crime and you’re the suspect. “Are you drunk?”

You laugh, surprised, and say, “No, I’m not.” You manage to not add anything incriminating like “God, I wish I was,” or “How about we change that?” or “And that’s the problem here.” But you think about it, and you think that’s not very good at all because it makes you start breathing rapidly and kind of wanting to run away. You’re kind of worried what you might blurt next and you don’t think she’s going to like that very much.

She’s still looking at you skeptically, though, and you’re kind of even more nervous than before, so you just kind of breathe even faster and blurt out, “Yeah, but enough about me, do you have a boyfriend I haven’t heard of before?”

You’re pretty sure you couldn’t have asked a more obvious question, but Crocker just kind of shakes her head, still watching you piercingly. “I think you’re drunk. You haven’t been nearly as good at talking as you normally are, and it’s obvious that you’re hiding something. What else would it be?”

Despite your quickening panic, you roll your eyes. And she wants to be a detective! Surely she would have noticed that you’re not staggering or reeking of alcohol. You kind of shrug and say, “I can’t be. The train ride sobered me up. I would need an ID to get alcohol there.” And damn if you didn’t almost stutter. You hadn’t been thinking about alcohol for a few hours, but now it’s back on your mind and all you can think about. Maybe you should act like you’ve got a cold so you can get some cough syrup.

Crocker frowns, but it comes out more like this really adorable pout. She says, “Then what _are_ you hiding?”

You get a little mad at yourself and make stammering noises. You just know she can’t react well. It’ll be all _that’s gross_ and _but we’re best friends_ and _maybe you should go home sooner_. But she looks at you with such big eyes, you bite your lip and look away. This would be so much easier with something to ease that goddamn fear you’ve always got. You open your mouth to feign a cough but all that comes out is “I lo—”

***

**CROCKER: Kiss her.**

***

What? That’s stupid! Roxy is clearly trying to say something, and it’s going to be crucial to figuring this case out, so you’d never think to interrupt her like that.

 

It’s a little painful to watch her stammer, though. You lean forward like you’re really interested, because you really, really are. And maybe that’ll help Roxy to just, you know, say it.

She does say something, but it’s really quiet and she’s blushing really hard. You blink because you seriously couldn’t hear it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that. Could you say that a little louder?” you ask brightly.

“I said I’m gay,” Roxy says louder, turning an even darker pink and looking away from you. A good detective like you can sense that she’s really ashamed for some reason.

You think for a bit about what to say. Asking if that means she loves you would be a very inexperienced-straight-person thing to say, though you have to admit that you’re pretty curious. In fact, asking pretty much anything you’d like to know would only give off the impression that you’ve never met a gay person in your life. Well, maybe you haven’t, but you’re pretty sure you see one in the mirror an awful lot, and you’re even surer that Dad wouldn’t let a stranger stalk your mirror.

So you just say, “That’s okay,” because it is. It really is. And maybe it makes you a little hopeful, but not too hopeful. Wouldn’t want to have any of those hopes crushed, right?

Roxy shakes her head and says with a thick voice, “No, no it’s not.” And she takes a deep breath like maybe she’s having a hard time breathing like she should. She looks up at you, but then she looks down again, and she’s kind of clutching her chest with one hand. “I lo—it’s not okay. I don’t know. It’s scary.”

You’re not completely sure what to do. You say, “Hey, it’s okay. Most of the states let us get married now, and it’s harder than ever to get fired for it.” You don’t mention that there’s no way Roxy would ever get a job without sobering up first, and you’re pretty sure that AA has some rule about age that would keep her out. (That’s pretty unfair, but not the point.)

She gives you another glance, but this time she stares and says, “U-us?” like a weepy detective who’s pretty sure something was hinted at that needs clarification.

You probably blush a little, because you don’t really like to talk about it. “I dunno, I mean I haven’t really liked many boys, but I’m pretty sure I do like—you know, some girls.” You shrug. “I just kind of think that if you’re attracted to someone you can’t help it, and labels are really stupid. Except on flour jars and stuff,” you add.

Roxy blinks at you and kind of smiles, and you’re pretty sure hers is a pretty nice smile.

***

**LALONDE: KISS HER DAMMIT.**

***

No no no no no! You can’t do that without asking, that’s just begging for her dad to walk in and then _what are you doing with my daughter_ and _this is sexual harassment_ and then the wizard hat falls off of that cute rabbit you gave her before and everything is terrible.

It takes you a while to do anything but stare and probably completely give away how hopeful you are with your expression. There certainly is a chance that maybe your feelings could be reciprocated, and that would be pretty damn awesome. For a moment, your head clears of all of that fear of rejection and you take her hands in yours and look her in the eyes and say, “Crock—Jane. Jane, will you—”

Suddenly that moment’s gone and she’s probably already sick of having her hands in your clammy ones and you’re not completely sure if it was worth trying to stop avoiding saying her name. You get all flushed and drop her hands and turn to stare at your feet which are still dangling over the edge. You can’t really believe the audacity you thought you had.

There’s more of that damn awkward silence, but Jane—Crocker—Jane shifts a little closer to you (you can feel the bed moving and see a bit from the corner of your eye) and she kind of puts her hand on your shoulder. She says, “I’m not sure if we should go out, because you’re not here for very long and you live so far away normally.” Everything else she says sounds kind of like it’s from the far end of a tunnel, but it clears up as she says, “But I do… I like you a lot, Roxy, and if I could I would.”

You look up a little and you say, “What about long-distance relationships? I know they’re hard, but…”

Crocker—Jane, you should call someone you want to date by their first name—Jane says, “I dunno, what if you get drunk and try to cheat on me?”

You look up at her properly to glower. “With what, one of my mom’s wizards? Too much beard,” you say disdainfully.

Jane kind of laughs, and it’s really cute and stuff but you think that your headache’s coming back so it kind of hurts a bit. “If you do, I’ll turn into a dish and run away with my red spoon,” she jokes, or at least you’re pretty sure it was supposed to be a joke.

For a little bit, you’re kind of quiet, but you say, “Well, maybe we could, I don’t know, see some movies together, and maybe see where it goes from there. Is that okay?” you ask.

Jane shrugs. “I dunno. We can try, I guess.”

You smile a little. You’re not really sure what else to say to that, so you sort of lean a little closer to her. Jane leans back, and though it seems to take a good ten minutes, your lips eventually meet hers. Your noses do, too, and you both kind of jump back and blush. You think about apologizing, but she leans in again and presses her puckered lips against yours and there’s a little wet sound.

And you’re pretty sure that as far as first kisses go, that could have been worse.


End file.
